MOL Files
by Dark Austral
Summary: This will be a collection of snippets, one-shots, short drabbles within the Supernatural verse starring various characters.
1. Shattering

**Disclaimer: Don't own these characters, which might be a good thing.**

**A/N: **When I was moving these fics, some of these are really short. So I've decided to start a lil catch-all like I did for Teen Titans with Drabble Corner. As the Joker would say "Here. We. Go."

**Summary**: This fic is inspired/based on the title card of season 6 of glass shattering. Sam, Dean and Cas perspectives.

**SHATTERING:**

A weathered window shield of an Impala roars down the road of Life, bearing whatever Fate throws, its strength drawing upon the Family. She bears much in her lifetime, seen things that should only exist in thin paper sheets of a worn-out book. During one particularly long year, tires spinning in the mud, she's navigating down a rocky dirt road when a tiny rock flings up under spinning tires from a sea of potholes, hitting with deadly precision or of chance upon her new window. The force sends ripples, the event shifting the fabric of the Family in the sharp edges of a chip.

Time beats patiently. It's only a breath or a month till a crack appears. It's long, dark and bold against the blue-tinged glass. Deep and broad, Sam stretches across the pane, carving paths unknown. The strong-headed Winchester corrupts the light, making it jagged and dark while at the same time bright and clear. Everyone sees it, how his soul shatters in jagged splits, separating body and soul. In the end, within deep crevices, his soul shatters into three distinct lines as he fights the pain of the chip the Cage has carved into him.

From Sam's deep crack, branches run rampant, trying to balance and keep the Family whole. Dean tries to lessen the strain on his brother, fighting to keep some semblance of normalcy, to protect Sam from himself. But it doesn't work. The stubborn-minded Winchester is cracking, branches stemming everywhere as he fights to juggle his many responsibilities. He yearns to keep everyone safe, to prevent Sam from remembering, as what he deems family shatters under the sharp edges of Samuel Campbell and the carved out hole of Lisa and Ben.

From Dean's wide cracks, spider webs dance throughout the rest of the glass hovering just outside the major fault lines but still important enough to impact the outcome. Castiel paints a web of miniscule cracks that none see till it's too late, too subtle and repetitious under the looming shadow of Sam and Dean's cracks. Spreading outwards, he tries to help Dean in relieving the other man's stress, stems off Sam as well, raising a man soulless from the Cage itself. Yet, he doesn't know that his actions only makes their Family more and more fragile. Till one day, his sanity is full of tiny spider cracks that it only takes one whiplash chip of rejection and he shatters into madness.

The window shield explodes into a million pieces, littering the seats, dash and hood with glistening deadly shards. Harsh reality blows into the interior of the Impala as the tires skid to a deadly halt, tipping the Impala till she lands on her hood. Coldness fills the car. Nothing moves. Everything becomes reversed, inside outside, whole and divided, family and enemies.

Ice frosts over the pieces as a chilling voice clinks against the shattered remains of the Winchesters.

"I have no family."


	2. Truce

**A/N**: Dean, Meg, Implied Dean/Alistair. This is from a lil snippet in regard to episode 6.09, Caged Heat and came from Meg stating how she was trained under Alistair as well.

**Summary:** It's hardly a truce, but that's what they call it anyway.

**Truce**

It's hardly a truce, but that's what they call it anyway. She's from the House of Azazel. He's from the House of Lilith. She loves the mental approach, not wanting to make her boots and clothes dirty. He loves the physical, wanting to feel the burn of a good day's work.

Sexual innuendos are her defense, with a jut of the hip and a welcoming smirk. Verbal attacks are his, insults and witty retorts flashing behind narrowed eyes and a smug grin.

There is nothing between them except a chasm of hatred.

They'll kill each other, but not tonight. Tonight, Dean digs hard, fingers tearing away clothes, a razor painting across that white skin. He claws away at the soft, pliant flesh of Meg, his skills a thousand times smoother and elegant like a blooming Michelangelo than that demon within the Campbell cousin.

Meg hates being tortured, wouldn't lie here and take it for no one. But the way Dean slices, she finds herself moaning in pleasure. Tiny shaking hands tug and pull in the sweat soaked hair, loving how Dean's body shudders above as she stretches out her powers making Dean feel everything he's doing to her.

They don't do it for the release or the corruption.

Meg needs this to get rid of the taste of an angel's cleanliness out of her system. Dean merely needs, searching for the tiny stain of Alistair to feel sane again. When Meg screams out, body clenching in shock, Dean slumps downwards eyes almost black without a flame of hope. "Alistair," vibrates quietly, the only sound in the deathly silence.

Amongst the ruins, drenched in black and red, they remember whose House they truly belong to.


	3. What are Friends For?

Spoilers: After 5.06: "I believe our children are the future" and hints to 5.03 and 5.04

A/N: Here's a little tag to 5.06 cause there just wasn't enough Dean and Cas time. Take anyway you want, just a friendship fic.

**What are friends for?**

Shredding the blood red leaf between his fingers, Dean waits quietly in the damp night air. A storm had blown through the small Kansas town leaving behind a trail of soaking wet fall leaves, caked mud roads and a pleasant clean smell in the air. Leaning forward, he drapes his forearms across his legs, green eyes falling to his fingers as they twirl around the thin brown stem.

The whole incident with the Anti-Christ was laid to rest in his mind, but there is something else that haunts him, pushing him to make late night meeting. He can feel the thick tension surrounding him as he recalls Sam and Castiel's intense stare down. Heated words he expected from Sam yet the harshness from Cas was like ripping off a scab shocking him the most. For Dean remembers those times when Cas and him would hang out or call about some leads during the whole brother separation ordeal. He remembers how Cas became more open around him, allowing Dean to relax and crack jokes at his expense. The Cas who wondered about Sam and despite having his own crazy mission while dodging angels still found the time to ask Dean if he was doing alright. That Cas was there, hiding in the background as the Soldier of the Lord Castiel lashed out against Sam commanding the boys to kill a mere child, despite the fact that the child was the Anti-Christ.

"_You didn't_," echoes loudly in Dean's head, covered in accusation and rage towards Sam. Yet, Dean knows the angel better than anyone and he senses there is something hidden so deep...

"You called?"

Titling his head slightly, Dean watches as Castiel walks towards the small bench he's camped on without a single leaf or grass making a sound. Pushing backwards, the hunter leans back against the slightly slimy wooden back. "Wanted to see if you're ok."

In his mind though, Dean's mind chuckles at the memory of picking up the action figure of a mighty angel. The tension between his brother and the angel shifts his mind back into focus. The hard clang of a plastic stand slamming none too gently against a fireplace mantel rings in his ears, a stark contrast to his gentle placing.

Lips forming a tight frown, Castiel tugs his coat close to him as he settles next to Dean. Blue eyes immediately lock themselves on their favorite spot, straight into a green sea. "I am fine."

"Good, cause it ain't everyday you're turned into a GI Joe wannabe," jokes Dean, his face brightening up, a smile tugging at his lips. Yet when that sober face darkens ever slightly, the mood disappears into the breeze. Sighing, his shoulders sag as another attempt to make the angel smile explodes in front of his face. Really, it seemed the only times that Cas even dared a smirk was when he wasn't even trying.

To Dean's surprise, Cas breaks the gaze staring out into the small wooded park. A lush dark brown trail twists andturns into the dense woods where in the far distance a faint shimmer of a pond catches a glitter of moonlight. "Why did you call? I am busy."

"Right, with finding God," adds Dean fighting back the grimace as Cas shots him a dark warning look. Mocking God is still a big No No on the angel's list. And really, when the hunter thinks about it, it isn't that surprising. How many times did he get defensive when someone talked smack about John Winchester? "Look, something's up."

The small tilt of Castiel's head is the only indication Dean receives that he has the angel's attention. To a normal person, it might seem the angel appeared bored but Dean could see past it. _Read _him. Tucking his feet underneath the bench, Dean stares hard at the hunched form of a person-no longer does he view him as anything else-he dares call friend. He hears Jesse's voice woven with predatory caution when asked about his relation to Cas. A part of Dean wanted to yell at the kid to turn the angel back but another whispered to tread carefully or he might end up in a worse position. And it stung him, the sharp rebuttal of 'No' twisting his guts inside.

"Dean."

Cas's soft yet stern tone sways him gently back to reality. The angel, the most wanted and probably second on their list underneath him, stares into him over a tan shoulder. Those eyes shine a powerful sea blue in the dim light reflecting concern at his charge...the only person he counts on. The weeks' old admission forces Dean to sit up straight, the knowledge that someone needed a worthless broken man a bit daunting. Licking his lips, he leans forward, matching Cas's posture identically even with the folding of his hands. "What's wrong?"

Confusion tugs at the pale face. "I told you, nothing."

"That's not what I mean," rolling his eyes, Dean leans slightly to the right, pressing into Castiel's personal space. He can't help but notice how he seemed to warn Casnot not to invade his, but since the whole Ralphael incident he's the one doing the invading. "I understand you were a bit trigger happy and concerned with the Anti-Christ. I get it. You stated some good points and protecting your family, even if they don't want it. I know what that's like." And boy does he know. All the times, he did something beyond the call of duty to protect Sam and his father even when it was against their wishes.

Sam's aggravated face and accusing glare after Castiel left their motel flashes in his mind. Sam was expecting his older brother to stand up and take his side. But instead, the older Winchester stood silently off the side only interrupting when things became too intense. Taking no one's side, he tried to seek out a middle ground. Dean didn't want to ruin in his slowly rebuilding relationship with Sam but at the same time he didn't want to loose his friendship with Cas. And this whole tension between his brother and the angel was making things more complicated. He needed both of them by his side if they were going to truly win this war. Nightmares of his future self still plagued his mind fueling him into this small project of mending fences.

The talk with Sam after they left Nebraska was quick. Sam grateful that Dean decided not to kill the child but his anger at Castiel tainted the air. The anguish oozing off of the new wound, the youngest Winchester muttered a small good-night before flying into the sanctuary of sleep. Now sitting here an hour later, Dean finds himself wondering why he's doing this. He's not good at small talk or speaking out about emotions. But he has to do this. He just has to.

"What you said to Sam-"

Cas's eyes dart to some corner off the woods, his shoulders tensing up. A guarded look falls over his face. A look Dean knows too well from staring into the mirror. Cas is hiding something. His guilt about something, probably concerning Sam, oozes out of him like molasses. For once, Dean's grateful the angel has not mastered the art of hiding emotions. "Sam knows what he did was wrong. No news flash there, it's pretty much beating a dead horse by now. But he's trying, Cas. He really is. Sam's..." Pursing his lips, Dean finds himself looking into the dark woods himself feeling the heavy weight of what was to come settle on his shoulders. "seeking redemption."

"Aren't we all," whispers a broken voice that can barely be heard over the stillness. Yet, Dean hears it and it freezes his heart. A ghost of an empty smile, of a void laughter blasting the graveyard air, of clear glass eyes cracking every time the sun dared to shine on them fuels a protective fire in him that Dean did not know existed.

Jerking his head, he leans in till his face to face with Cas forcing the angel to look at him. The slight widening of eyes betrays the angel's surprise. Dean knows this should be uncomfortable, but in true Winchester fashion he snarls _'Screw it'_. So what if he could feel the angel's heat soaking into him, or the warm breath caressing over his cheek. This is his buddy...his friend and like hell would he let him slip into a life of decadence. "Don't you dare sound like that again," hisses a dark anger.

Eyes crunching, Cas meets Dean's heated glare with wariness. This smoldering look is new on his charge's face and it scares him. "Sound like what?"

"Broken," snaps Dean. "Look, you can be all angry and yelling at the skies, stuttering or all ice-cold like before, but don't you dare lose hope. You hear me."

A curt nod is given without even thinking it. Hesitant, Dean hovers there before pulling back slowly his green eyes blazing with warning. "Now tell me what the hell you meant by 'aren't we all?'"

"Dean," a pause suffocates the angel's lungs, before forcing out "I can't."

"Why the hell not?" That anger is back in full force.

Prepared, Cas meets Dean's thundering face with one of calm seas. The two are opposites but at the same alike in so many ways it is a bit frightening. Huffing away his boiling anger, Dean shifts his body against the rough grain of the bench. If there was one thing he learned from his dealings with John and Sam, it was that sometimes getting angry and hot headed wasn't the best the way to solve a problem.

Both are new to this relationship thing that is going on between them. Dean never truly having a friend, other hunters mere acquaintances. Even Jo, he views more as a sister and Ellen as a sorta of long-distant aunt. And Bobby, he's a father. But none were a friend, not in the true utter sense of the word. Going past thirty and he finally feels it justified to call someone a friend, hell best friend in the way things are heading. He can only imagine what Cas feels like; going over two thousand years old and now he finally branches out. Well, there was nothing like living in the present, especially with the Apocalypse here.

Rolling his shoulders, Dean speaks in a more calm voice,"We're friends…right?" And man did it still feel weird saying that out loud, but it felt right nonetheless.

Cas's brow furrow in that look hinting that he's thinking on the meaning. That was Cas, always thinking before speaking, making his words all that important to Dean, making him trust him even more. Not to mention, he finds it amusing how Cas can't understand the concept of lying.

"Yes."

And that was that, no longer would it be some big elephant in the room. No longer would it be some silent confirmation passed between glances but now a physical verbal entity.

"Then talk to me," presses Dean gently.

Blue eyes darken, the tone remaining flat but Dean recognizes a dodge when he sees one. "Why?"

"Because that's what friends do."

"It's a bit hypocritical, isn't it?" Dean's mouth drops open at the jab but a tiny glint in Cas's eyes means no harm was meant.

Letting out a weak laugh, Dean scratches at his head absently. "Got me there, Cas, but fine you don't want to talk…" Slumping against the bench, he reaches idly to the side where a six-pack beckons. Pulling two bottles, he hands one automatically to the angel. If anything was a success at the red house, it was Cas being more open to drinking. As fingers brush, images of a Castiel propping his feet on the table, knocking back a glass of hard liquor squeezes his lungs. Popping off the cap, Dean takes a long drink washing away the memories as Cas mirrors him with a tiny sip.

Cradling the beer in one hand, the other tugging at the dangling sash, the angel licks his lips. "Dean…"

"No, it's fine, really. You don't want to talk; I get it…just-"

"Dean." The tiny plea encompassed in the whisper of his name is becoming harder and harder to resist. It's like Sam's massive puppy-dog face only Cas has to merely say his name without any eye contact and he crumbles. Drawing his eyes back to their target, Dean stares back at the angel's stricken face, no longer bothered by these long-drawn gazes.

Anguish trembles open pale lips as his head bows in guilt. Reaching out, Dean places a comforting hand on the other man's shoulder, his own breath hitching at the tense flesh underneath.

"Cas…"

The angel darts his eyes lower to the ground. The gentle tone full of trust and concern that Cas knows is not given freely. Words swell in his throat inching their way onto his tongue. Words ready to spell out how he wants to tell Dean everything right now.

How every time he looks at Sam, he is reminded of his orders regarding the panic room. Of how, he let Sam out. How those single actions led to a heart shattering brotherly feud, Anna's death and eventually Lucifer's rise. That when he stares at Sam, he doesn't see Dean's brother but himself. And in those seconds all his guilt morphs into a cold fury he has no experience in handling and can't contain. How, he is on the verge of an obsession that will likely end in his death or fall. That he wants to repent to a missing father. That this mission of redemption is wearing him thin till he knows one day he will snap and destroy the one thing he cherishes.

How all of this scares him.

In the silent fall night, Cas wants to tell Dean that he alone is probably more responsible than the brothers combined in starting the Apocalypse. Then he hears the hunter, his only true friend in this exile, shuffle closer, his strong body anchoring him amid the storm of foreign emotions running rampant. Closing his eyes, Cas relishes in the feeling, a decision damming up his confession. He's selfish for the first time ever. More than ever, Cas realizes he needs Dean and if he lost him...this friendship…Cas doesn't know what he would with himself.

Swallowing, the angel forces his gaze up into worried eyes. "I can't, Dean…not yet." He already can see the argument forming, quickly cutting off the hunter. "But I will try to be nicer to Sam."

Relief clashes with disappointment. Leaning back, Dean smiles sadly patting his back with understanding radiating back. "Thanks, Cas."

Nodding the angel reluctantly places more distance, but just enough to take a long drink Dean following his move. The two sit in comfortable silence, finishing their beers. Minutes trickle into another hour, the night air beginning to chill. Not a word is said as the two pushes themselves off the bench. Dropping his bottle into the trashcan, Cas walks by Dean's side back to the Impala. "Dean."

The hunter halts by the driver's door, the remaining six-pack dangling in his hand. "Yeah?"

"I didn't want to kill the child, but I had to. And if I ever meet Jesse again or any other creature that posses a threat to the Host, I will do what I must."

Dean's lips thin, "He's just a child, Cas."

"I know, but it's war Dean." The soldier in the angel emerges, eyes hardening. "More than that, it's the Apocalypse. There is no time for pranks or laughs anymore. We can't afford to…screw up…like before with the Seals."

Taking in a deep breath, Dean nods. "Right." He can't help but jump when a hand lands on his shoulder, right above his scar. The burn is no longer bright red , yet it seems to warm ever so softly.

"I am sorry, but it is the truth."

"Yeah, yeah." And it scares Dean because he knows Cas is right. Knows that when the angel suggested it, for a moment he agreed in killing a child. He's a soldier too and he knows what he is capable of, the memory of his future self sending his colleagues and Cas to their deaths sends shivers down his spine. But then Sam reminded him that despite it being war, they were the good guys here and no matter what they were John Winchester's boys fighting to save people.

"Thank you Dean...for this."

Surprise lights the hunter's face as his green eyes dash upwards to meet an actual small smile on Cas's face. And he can't help but reflect it back. "Be careful out there."

"You too." Both knowing exactly how suicidal the other could be makes the statement almost pointless, but it was soothing. Then in a flutter, the angel is gone leaving Dean alone but with a comfort that in truth he wasn't.


	4. Masquerade

**Spoilers**: 5.04, "The End"

**Summary**: Everyone wears one, a mask for a burning world to see.

**A/N:** I remembered that one of the things that made Lucifer evil is his ability to manipulate people by tempting them with all different masks. And from there, this story just grew.

**Masquerade**

Lucifer wears many masks. The Bible was right in that single fact. He wears the faces of loved ones. Ones people never got to say goodbye to, ones that left too early…ones that died in the arms of a companion. Satan weaves in and out, slithering like a snake up in a tree passing through the leaves of all his false faces.

He wears the faces of leaders, politicians, the rich and the knowledgeable. Lucifer has merely to smile warmly, those piercing eyes locking themselves onto a single person. Making him or her feel they are the one true, precious thing in this whole entire crazed world. He makes them feel not alone, makes them feel loved…takes away the pain. Hissing seductively in a sympathetic voice, he exudes confidence and twisted truths to bid the lost souls home.

Yet for one man, Lucifer turns the tables. All those masks fall away, shedding away skin upon skin. In the radiant purple and red tainted sky of dawn, with lighting cracking in clear skies above, he wears the one face which was chosen just for him. Lips pursing in mourning, large endless brown eyes pinch together as if holding back tears, Lucifer reaches out to lay a hand on the shoulder of the single man who can kill him.

He wears the face of a beloved brother, the ultimate perfection.

"Dean…I am sorry." The shell-shocked hunter takes a step back, green eyes blown wide. Blinking, Lucifer tilts his head sideways, lowering his rejected hand. Pain flashes on his face. "It had to be your brother."

A chocked voice rasps out into the charged air with undiluted venom. "I'll kill you, you son a bitch, even it's the last thing I do."

A tight smile stretches across the mask, his face now for all eternity. The sympathetic nature shimmers, yet his sheer hatred for these apes oozes out of him for the briefest of seconds. Oh, how he wants to blast this man into oblivion. But no. He is beyond this. The torture of knowing that Dean could not save his brother will be enough for him. It will drive the man insane, twisting this human into a creature no longer righteous enough to become Michael's vessel.

No. Leaving this Dean Winchester alive will be the greatest blow to his cursed brethren. Lucifer's eyes fall onto the pearl laced pistol leveling at his chest, the white knuckled grip betraying the man's despair. In a voice that has won over millions, he speaks with absolution.

"Not today, Dean." Then in a crack of lightening and a pistol firing, the Devil is gone.

* * *

He wears the mask of stone-hearted leader. Green eyes dull but edged like jade, he commands with a ruthlessness that would have made his own father flinch. Anger and restlessness hold up the mask day and night, night and day. Through the throngs of drilling the grunts, burying and killing companions, to slaughtering Croats, the mask remains firm on his face.

With each blink, Dean wears this 'fearless leader' face as Cas dubs with an ease that scares him. On his shelf are other masks, but none have seen as much action as this one created out of the three years of Hell on Earth...out of his own stubbornness.

There is one other mask he wears when a pretty girl catches his eyes. They are so few these days, but he remembers how to charm and woo any woman. Flashing a smile, offering tiny compliments on her shooting, brushing his hand alongside her backside, the womanizer in him shimmers seductively behind his eyes. And women continue to flock to him under its gaze, loving the bad boy, wanting to be the one woman that can warm his cold heart. To his surprise, Reesa is hard to woo but her feisty nature soon crumbles. Glancing over his shoulder, Dean halts in the doorway of her cabin, taking in the slender sleeping form of his third in command. Then in a blink, one mask falls as another takes its' place.

The faces of a big brother, of the loyal son, of a jokester and friend collect cobwebs till the day comes when Dean no longer remembers what is was like to wear to them. Two other masks are dull, but they are there. The face of the torturer grins like a demon, black eyes smoldering in the shadows of his mind. He only comes out in rare cases, which seem to grow more and more. This face scares Dean the most, more than the Croats, or demons, of Lucifer himself.

Stepping into a small clearing, Dean stares up into the glittering clear night sky. All the masks crumble away under the heavy weight of the whisky running through his veins. Throwing his arms wide open, tears paint on the last, true face of a broken man. Staggering a step backward, screams rip through his throat as the anniversary of meeting the Devil burn brightly in his mind.

"I'M HERE! YOU HEAR ME, ZACH! GET YOUR WINGED LILY-WHITE ASS DOWN HERE AND TAKE ME!" Nothing replies but the eerie rustling of leaves. Tilting his head even further back, he screams louder up to the heavens. "MICHAEL! TAKE ME! I'M BEGGING YOU! TAKE ME! YOUR OWN WILLING ANGEL CONDOM IS READY TO GO!"

Crashing hard onto his knees, he wails and begs till his voice splinters as his throat is raw under the chilly air. "YES, DAMNIT! YES! YES!"

He screams till his faces shatter into a million pieces. Collapsing deeper into the ground, he curls into a ball, fingers clawing into soft damp ground. "You bas-tards. Why…why…?" Hatred boils in him, forging an iron-clad mask of a new Dean Winchester. "Fine," growls out a man who has nothing to lose, "You spineless, yellow cowards. I'll kill him myself and then I'll hunt you all down, you hear me Zachariah…I'll kill you, Michael and every other angel."

Then he rises off the ground, grabbing the empty bottle lying next to him. He needs another drink.

* * *

He wears the mask of a happy, bliss-free druggie as a ploy to back away from all the attention. Chuck hovers behind him, concern radiating off of the little man. Rolling shoulders, his joints pop and crack under the strain. Satisfied, Castiel pushes himself from the cot, feet knocking down an empty bottle of absinthe.

"Should you be up?" croaks out Chuck, as if he's afraid the angel might smite him but his motherly instincts override him.

Blue eyes no longer glowing with an otherworldly fire soak in the figure standing still as a statue in his entry way. "I haven't had a seizure in a month." Fuzzy memories of excruciating lapses as his grace was slowly torn from his body well up in him, threatening to drown him once more.

"But your foot?"

Flashing a full-on smile at the ex-prophet, Castiel fights back the tiny wave of jealousy towards the man. Ever since the angels left, abandoning him here, the writer's visions have disappeared…along side the angel's grace. Where Chuck finds freedom, Cas finds imprisonment.

Tilting his head upwards, Cas struggles to maintain the only face amongst the grinded pieces of his former self. Pushing himself upwards, he hides the pain of his still healing foot with a small smile, dead eyes challenging the other man. This pain is nothing to what he feels with every breath and thudding of his heart as minutes turn into years without his brothers and sisters around him. "Fit and ready for duty."

The face seals the deal with a grin and a wink as he brushes the loose hair from his face. This face knows when to joke, not afraid of anything or anyone and can charm a woman and her friends into a pit of decadence.

Dean stares at him with calculating eyes, as if he's merely assessing his value as being a grunt than that of his second in command…of his friend. Throwing his hands into his pockets, the hunter narrows his eyes in disgust at the strewn bottles and the small plume of smoke rising from an incense burner. Lips thinning, he speaks in a numb hoarse voice. "You're useless."

The mask slips, words of a broken angel flying out before he even thinks, "Well excuse me, o fearless leader." And for the first time, Cas mocks with a sharp tone to the one man he cares above all with a title they both know well is false.

Chuck's mouth falls open as the two watch Dean brace his shoulders, a look darkening like the storm outside. Then in a quiet rumble, he leaves through the weak barrier of beads. Castiel struggles to readjust his game-face on, not wanting to let how deep those words sliced into him. His old self flares to life wanting to fly after Dean, slam that cold body into a wall and tell him that he is just as useless: a broken vessel that could have saved them all.

That he has heard Dean's screams at night, the begging and crying…the cursing at his own kin. He wants to rip off that mask and his own corrupted mask and yell that he has lost everything for him…for a human he dared to place his faith in. That he lost himself for him. That this whole charade of false faces is killing them.

"Cas, Dean didn't mean that."

Fingers curl into fists underneath the long sleeves. For the first time, Cas wants to strike out, hurt anything in his path. He wants someone to feel his never-ending torture. Glancing back at the small man, Cas realizes amongst his buzzed mind that Chuck has somehow remained the only one left from the Time Before with no false faces or hidden pains. That this man he first saw as an alcoholic denying his role as a prophet has somehow blossomed into a caring, pillar of strength who cares for everyone's needs, even if that involves hoarding toilet paper.

Pulling the joking face back on as if it was a familiar tan trench coat, Castiel limps slightly to his small cabinet. Reaching out, he grabs a small pill bottle popping off the lid. Chuckling, he sends a quick grin over his shoulder. "I'm good, Chuck. Thanks."

Chuck nods, awkwardness filling the small area. "Guess I better leave, then. Things to do…" And in two quick steps he flutters out, leaving the soft clinking of beads in his wake.

Throwing back his head, Cas swallows two pills down with ease. Closing his shattered glass eyes, the former angel rests against the cabinet, his body sweating and trembling. He clings to this face now, harder than ever. He's never going to take it off, never going to let himself feel this aching pain of betrayal. For it is worse than being abandoned by his brethren…for it is pure, utter loneliness.

* * *

Chuck waits quietly by the gate, a group of people gathering behind him. They are waiting like lost sheep. Waiting for their leader and his posse to return from successfully killing the Devil, their hope that the Apocalypse is over keeps them warm in the damp weather. Hours trickle by and Chuck can feel it in the artic breeze.

They are not coming back. The mission failed. There is no hope. The soft coughing of a young girl pulls the writer's attention back. Soft murmurs hint at the growing panic.

"_Keep them calm," orders Dean as he holsters his pistol to his leg strap. The three of them are standing by Dean's jeep as the others slowly migrate towards them._

"_How am I suppose to do that?" whispers Chuck, his voice full of worry. He hates being the center of attention, let alone in charge._

"_Tell them a good ol' fashion hunting story about Dean," jokes Cas earning another dark glare from their leader. And like always, the ex-angel grins right back, eyes sparking with the knowledge of what really is going on behind this mission. Chuck feels his mouth begin to open, confused eyes shifting back onto Dean wanting to know the truth. But by then, the rest of the party arrives at the convoy and it's time to move out._

Staring through the barbed gates, the ex-prophet realizes that he has to step up and fill in the giant footsteps left behind. He wants to crawl into a hole, fingers itching for a bottle. He's not a hero. He's a writer and now a mere inventory manager. He didn't want this, just like how he didn't want to be a prophet.

Dropping his eyes, Chuck struggles to find the strength to face the growing crowd behind him. He can wear the white sympathetic face and weave a tapestry of lies and false hopes till rescue comes. Until, all he sees are weak-minded creatures that deserve everything that is happening to them.

"_So this is what you do now?" prods the past Dean._

_Chuck smiles sheepishly as he takes in his cabin that also acted as a small warehouse. "It keeps me busy, since I'm not grunt material."_

He can wear the black revenge-filled face and drive a wall up so high that not even killing his own men fazes him. Until, all he yearns are the suicidal runs, hoping to die one day but never fulfilling it till today.

_Past Dean gives a small, heart-filled laugh as he glances out the door behind him to the small clustering group of survivors. They were gathered around a camp-fire sharing the meager supplies, happy gazes flickering in the warm light. "The way I see it…"_

He can wear the blue despair filled face and run away from life and all its' suffering and trappings. Until, all he yearns are where his next hits will be, trying to seek a way back home while bringing himself closer and closer to self-implosion.

_Chuck gazes up at the younger version of his leader. The man still seems shocked and lost, the urge to not believe any of this tightening his frame. But then those green eyes look down at him with warmth that scares and awes him._

"_You're the heart of this place, Chuck. You keep things running smoothly, making sure everyone has everything." A human smile flashes on Dean's face. "Keep up the good work."_

Bracing his shoulders, Chuck finds himself smiling. Turning, he faces the worried crowd of survivors. "Alright people." He rests his clipboard over his chest, arms crossed before it. "Let's give the convoy till tomorrow at midnight. Until then, we need to start getting ready for winter again. You all know your duties and till we schedule the next supply run, all rations will have to be cut in half." Sighing deeply, he lets himself remain true, no false faces covering up his determination. "Move out."

Nodding to each other, the group disperses. Life moves on within the camp, hope still shimmering while outside the hellish fires of the Apocalypse run rampant.


	5. Standing Still

**Characters**: Future!Cas, Future!Dean, Bobby, Sam  
**Spoilers**: 5.3 and 5.4 (these episodes were a fanfic gold mine)  
**Warnings**: Pure angst  
**Summary**: Standing still, Castiel watches the world burn away.

**A/N**: Ok, so this fix was written before the episode aired. Everything was based of off the preview and the sneak peeks. Thus, some things are different from what happened in the episode.

**Standing Still**

He stands quietly to the side, his hopes crashing into the ring of fire trapping Raphael. All the while, the impassive mask stays on before the golden flames. Behind him, a thunderstorm rages on, flying sheets of rain and debris into him. But the hunted angel remains rooted to his spot, fixating all his pain and rage at the archangel. He is tired, strung out…scared. And with every breath and wing beat, he feels the agonizing pain of being ripped apart.

The only moment of peace he had since his death was found in the back ally behind a brothel house. Despite the crazy antics Dean dragged him into, Castiel felt a burden lift off of him at the sound of his charge's laughter. Braving a rare warm smile, the angel and hunter mused over the backfire plan of trying to get him laid. Both knew the feeling would pass in time. For now though, they could escape the possible outcome of this suicide mission. For a moment, Castiel could not feel guilty in bringing about the Apocalypse. And for a moment, Dean could ignore the aching absence of his brother. Despite the brave face, Dean misses Sam with all his heart and Castiel can see it clear as day.

"God is dead." Raphael's voice booms like thunder, shattering Castiel's small refuge.

Waves of conflicted emotions crash within him. Yet beyond these rocky shores, salvation is present. Dean stands by him, a solid presence as his mouth lashes out with ferocity and passion. For a man who seems skeptical in believing God, Dean's words ring clear and true. In the briefest of seconds, Castiel believes Michael is standing right next to him, defending their Father's name while Lucifer prowled in the darkness gathering his followers.

Blinking, he turns his head as Dean does the same, blue and green meeting over the torrent rain and wind. Resolution and trust shine in the eyes of the hunter. Despite all the harsh words Castiel lashed out back at the hospital, Dean is not frightened or angry at him. Dean would stay, fight with Castiel and not leave him on this suicide mission on searching for God alone. He would force Raphael's wrath onto himself if he had too.

Castiel feels surprise flare to life in him. A memory of flashing white light, a house rocking back and forth as Dean's face conveyed his shock that Castiel would stay by his side, bearing the brunt of the archangel's wrath onto himself while Dean saved Sam. Understanding stills the storm in the angel. Turning their heads back to face Raphael, man and angel realize their relationship went beyond mere guardian and charge. They were brothers in arms.

The memory gives the blue-eyed man determination to move forward. Heat boils in the angel's veins, lashing back that this was not true. Faith in his father is all he has left in this exile he chose. This quest is the only way he sees fit to redeem himself. And he would be damned if this angel would take that away from him. "You're lying."

Those dark chocolate eyes remain steadfast, never blinking as hollow thunder whipped in the air. "Did it ever occurred to you that maybe Lucifer raised you?"

"No." The word whisper past his lips, hinting at the terror sneaking up in the angel. It couldn't be true. Raphael has to be lying. If he truly was touched by Lucifer, there would be some mark, some tainted residue in him. As if sensing his shaking hold, Dean turns his head to look at him as Raphael told of how their older brother would need rebellious angels. Dawning shines forth from the rain streaked face. The hunter's mind is finally coming to grasp how much Castiel sacrificed for him. Empathy mixed with uncertainty betray the confident stance. The angel felt a calmness overlap the agonized mess he's unraveling into, hardening into the impassive mask once more. He can't let his guard, not in front of Dean. He had to remain strong for the only person willing to help him.

Lips thinning, Castiel realizes the conversation is over. He might not have achieved what he was hoping for, but he had gained something unexpected. He has a true friend. Voice steadfast in his command, Castiel turns in the rain. "Let's go."

Turning, he faces the entrance way. Raphael, though, is not done. "Castiel." The voice cracks like lightening. Instincts ingrained into him since the beginning of time halt the said angel's movement, pulling his attention back to the dark-skinned warrior. "I'm warning you, do not leave me here. I will find you."

Red fills Castiel's vision. All his suffering breaks past his barriers. Uriel knocking down the foundations of his trust. Zacheriah yanking away the blinds of his allegiance. Raphael blasting his very existence into oblivion. Eyes hardening, the renegade angel lets rage sharpen his voice. This brother had killed him without a mere blink. Dean was right to worry that this whole plan was about revenge. Taking a step forward, he meets the steady gaze of the captured angel with his own, not blinking as water runs down his face. "Maybe one day. But today you're my little bitch."

Stepping out of the room, he hears Dean's boots creak against the floorboards. Then the gruff voice yells out over the wind. "What he said."

Halting by the front door, Castiel takes in a deep breath shocked by Dean's words. He knew Dean was terrified in facing off with an archangel, what human wouldn't be. But he didn't except his charge's trust and support. Things truly had changed from their first meeting of stabbing and doubting.

A shoulder bumps lightly into him. Flicking his gaze upwards from the doorknob, Castiel takes in Dean's soaked, grinning face.

"Guess you were wrong."

Blue eyes narrow in confusion. "About what?"

"You dying." Despite the joking tone, Castiel hears the relief. "Come on, Rambo. Time to boogie." Pushing open the door, Castiel watches Dean's confident stride work its' way gracefully to the Impala. He truly was in debt to his charge. And whatever insane, suicidal plans Dean would partake in the future, Castiel knows without hesitation he would support him. It was what being friends was all about. Sticking with each through thick and thin.

He prays undoubtly they live through it.

* * *

The angel stands frozen to his spot, pure horror on his face. "...no..."

Lucifer smiles warmly at him, the truth blazing behind those grieving dark blue eyes. With the precision of meager words, the Morning Star blasts away Castiel's faith. "You're welcome, Castiel."

Collapsing onto his own knees, Castiel tilts his head upwards as the trembling body of Nick twists his hand deep inside the kneeled man's chest. Truth resonates loudly in his mind. Lucifer brought him back to life for his own sick games. The Devil counted on Castiel selling his very allegiance for the Winchester boys. What he didn't expect was Castiel's stubborn angelic nature magnifying to new levels. And he was not pleased, not liking when things did not go according to plan.

Dropping his sympathetic nature, Lucifer claims his dues. Flashing a cold weak smile hinting to the twisted creature he truly is, Satan yanks out a clawed hand splattering blood onto his face as well as Castiel's. Tilting his palm upward, the powerful fallen angel cradles blue wisps. With one tiny breath, the Devil blows the purest grace out of existence.

Castiel's mind blanks as he throws back his head, back arching in searing pain, wings snapping to their full wing span as an earth-shattering scream levels everything around them. He's falling but not. Wind whips around him, tearing through his red-staining wings. He's stretched beyond oblivion and for a moment he wonders if he's dying again. It's like the first time around with Ralphael. But Lucifer is not kind, not merciful. A loud and heavy heart presses in his chest, lungs exploding with need. Gasping, Castiel's eyes go wide with painful stinging.

He's human.

As light returns to normal and the dust settles, Lucifer's no where to be seen. Collapsing on his back, Castiel stares hazy upwards into the painted blue sky ceiling where tiny cherubs with white wings and harps danced around white puffs of clouds. The cracking of glass signales the arrival of someone he no longer senses. Blinking weakly, Castiel watches as Dean's worried face sways, filling his vision.

The hunter's mouth moves but he hears no words. All he can see are the darkening circles around the eyes and the constantly furrowed brow. Despite the fun times when Dean found another way to 'corrupt' his angel, the human is aging before him, hardening more into a soldier than before. The incident at the Hushpuppy Food Festival still made Dean laugh till he cried while he finds himself smiling more and more. Not to mention the whole 'worked at the post office' inside joke.

Dean's head shots up as Sam's face hoveres across from Dean's, face pleading for help. Concern shines forth from those doe eyes. Castiel's relieved to see the Winchesters together again. He didn't know when it happened, but the exiled angel started to care for Sam, wanting to protect him from his own lost brother,_ Lucifer_. He wanted to spare the brothers the pain caused by the fall of all his tainted brothers and sisters.

A groan breaks through his cracked lips, knocking him back to reality as Dean presses hard onto his chest. Sam's eyes flicker to the side, as if he couldn't bear seeing the ragged wound. Castiel narrows his in confusion, wondering why there was a shred of blame shining in them. It was not Sam Winchester's fault. He opens his mouth to whisper the words yet darkness finally takes hold and he finds himself falling once more.

* * *

Shoulder's slumped, he stands underneath the tattered trench coat. The long tan material is the only remaining piece of clothing he retained from Jimmy. The suit and tie were lost long ago in some small town located in the back hills of the upper Midwest. Fingers curl around the frayed cuffs as he tilts his head downwards. Once cropped, black hair a bit longer spike outwards, ruffled by the wool hat as the snow bits against his exposed skin. Yet Castiel only cares about was the disheveled appearance of his companion.

Dean's broad back slumps into a hunch as he kneels on the ice-laced ground. Arms tighten themselves around his chest underneath the peppered white green jacket. He watches as Dean's body shakes with grief, choked screams cracking into the air. Head hung so low as if touching the ground, Dean mourns the death of a man he considered his father. For before the two, laid out with reverence is one of the greatest hunters of all time. Bobby Singer's face is peaceful, a faithful baseball cap remaining firm on his head as the flames lick, sizzle and dance all around him.

Turning to gaze over his shoulder towards the ruined house that was a home of the Winchester's, Castiel's pained blue eyes seek the figure of another. Sam was by their side when they raced towards Bobby's house a few hours ago. But after, when they found the hunter, he had been so occupied in making sure there were no threats around and keeping an eye out on Dean that Sam slipped into the background. The tall brother had been present at the lighting of the pyre, but now he was gone.

Fear curls over Castiel's heart. In his short time, he knows how suicidal and idiotic the Winchester boys can become in the throws of grieving. Dean selling his soul and Sam drinking demon blood were only a few incidents. Stepping outwards towards the junkyard to find Sam, Castiel pauses when Dean's chocked voice trembles behind him. Turning, his eyes fall onto Dean's stricken face. No longer did the green-eyed man look like a hunter, much less the vessel of Michael. He looks like a lost four-year old boy.

"Is he-"

Shuffling his shoulders, the fallen angel drapes the coat over Dean's shoulders hiding the wince as the biting cold air strikes against his flannel shirt. It might not be enough and too late to stop Dean from freezing, but a little protection is better than none. And Dean needs protection now more than ever. Reaching out, Castiel lays a hand on his friend's shoulder squeezing it gently. Sympathy shines forth through the whiteness. It was all ever he felt anymore besides helpless rage. "He is at peace, Dean."

Dean nods numbly before turning his face into the golden light. In that moment, Castiel sees for the first time the mask of a general falling into place. And the first chip at his steadfast faith flakes off, drifting into the snow covered ground.

* * *

He can't stand still anymore. He has to move. _Now_. He no longer can afford being some player on the side-lines. Running forward, Castiel throws a powerful punch into the demon's face. His knuckles crack, bones thrumming but he keeps going. Another demon jumps out from his right. Hours of endless drilling underneath the strict eyes of Dean Winchester, Castiel kicks out with confidence letting himself relish the grunt coming from the demon.

Rushing onwards, he clips another round into his gun and fire into the gang of three demons. The salt rounds are modified-thanks to Rufus-hindering the demons if only for a moment. Sprinting past them, Castiel feels the recognizable urge to have his powers back. During moments of peace, he never missed them except for flying. His broken wings are ghosts of their former glory, feathers drifting off bare bones like a tree during autumn. It were moments like these, in the heat of battle, when Castiel wonders if he should have taken up on Lucifer's offer.

Then the thought of Zachariah and the rest of the garrison's slaughter run ice through his veins. A few angels are out there, but they either fled Earth to drift forever in the solitude of space or hid themselves so deep in the planet. Raphael's voice still rings loudly in his head. God was dead and Castiel finds himself agreeing more every day. In the early months after Bobby's death, Castiel placed his hunt for God on the back burner, helping Dean in his hunts and finding Sam, who disappeared without a notice. Dean seemed a bit disappointed when Castiel returned the amulet but worry for Sam settled over the hunter as he hung the necklace in its' rightful place. For months, the pair searched for the wayward Winchester, not catching a decent lead till a few days ago.

_Dean_. Determination lent wings to his feet as Castiel punches and slices his way through another wave of demons. Their blood splatters onto him. No longer are battles clean and efficient like in the past. Castiel wouldn't change it. For above all, there is one reason he had said no to Lucifer. Dean. If he was gone, then this righteous man would truly be alone. And Castiel can't do that to his friend…his brother.

Breaking through, Castiel takes in a deep breath, chest heaving from exertion. Blue eyes hardened into sternness as he carefully inches his way forward. Sam stands so close to Dean that their chests almost touch. Hazel eyes once caring, beam golden orbs narrowing with sickening joy.

"You should have listened to your father Dean_,_" whispers Satan in a soft familiar voice purring with unabashed power. "You could have prevented all of this, could have saved Sam_._"

"Shut up, you sick bastard," coughs out Dean, blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth.

Lucifer, within the body of his true vessel, twists Ruby's knife out of Dean's stomach spilling red dots on the tarmac. Without pause, Dean collapses, staring painfully up into the clear blue Montana sky without a single white cloud in sight. Stepping back, Lucifer gazes sadly upon the broken man looking for a split second like Sam. Then in a tell-tell flutter, he is gone taking his demon horde with him

Throwing caution to the wind, Castiel springs forward skidding onto his knees. Not wasting time, he bunches up Dean's shirt to slow down the bleeding. Taking in every bit of knowledge he learned about medicine, Castiel eyes the wound relieved to see that despite being deep, the hunter would live.

Flashing concerned eyes, he yells out in his gruff voice. "Dean."

Dying green eyes once full of hope and righteousness gaze at him. "My brother's dead, Cas." Squeezing his eyes tightly, Dean jerks his head to the side, voice chocked with torment. Tears would be streaming down the pale face, but he's all dried up. "Sammy's dead."

Kneeling in the searing black pavement, his faith in his father curses at what has happened. Swallowing, Castiel tries to still the earthquake in him for the first time with a lie. "He's not Dean...Sam's in there. You can still save him." Pressing hard, he fingers out a cellphone to call for backup. All the while, blue eyes never leave the stricken pale face. He stares till Dean drags his lost eyes onto him. Then in a voice soft and caring, he adds. "Have faith."

* * *

Standing on the edge, Castiel stares with distant eyes down the stairs. The Harvelles are chatting softly behind him, the mother and pregnant daughter arriving at the camp barely in time. Rufus is pacing back and forth, agitation shimmering off of him. There are a few other hunters and some soldiers and a handful of civilians in this small meeting room. They gather around a large green tennis table, sharing information and other tactful components.

Sam—no Lucifer and his demon armies are pursuing any traces of angel activity. Yet, the most dangerous news comes not from the demons but the human population. Poor, naïve humans, who didn't know of the Apocalypse, caught in the crossfire. It seems something is spreading through the cities. People are getting violent and killing each other before disappearing completely. The only clue being a single word: Croatoan.

Someone asks his advice, his skills as a hunter and vast knowledge on ancient symbols and practices wide-known in the rag tag fighter groups. No one knows of his former status of being an angel except for Dean. And that was fine with him. Castiel can no longer feel the pride and wonder of being such a celestial figure without disgust welling in him. He is cracking; his once devote faith crumbling every day as refugees flood the camps. Giant blocks fall away when people die under his hands or look to him as someone to confide in...someone with salvation. The stories he hears…the things people did to survive…

Shuddering in a deep breath, Castiel shakes a no at the man's question. The person's afraid to ask Dean. It's becoming well-known that Castiel is easier to approach than the remaining Winchester. It is Castiel people went to see if they could have a private audience with the cold-hearted general. It is Castiel that speaks of other important issues such as keeping hope alive without fear of retort. It is Castiel that is the only person who calms Dean when he's on the verge of exploding. Ellen once was able to do such a feat, but that was before _HE_ was lost.

The stranger seems to get the hint and leaves, but not before flicking his own gaze downwards at the end of the stairs. Two doors are present, one to a tunnel that leads outside, the other to a room that Castiel hoped never to see again. As if on cue, the tunnel door opens and Dean hauls in a blindfolded and gagged individual. One arm locked over the throat, Dean throws open the other door and tosses the tied up man into a room with a salted metal chair and a devil's trap barely illuminated under the single light bulb.

"Dean," Ellen's voice flies past Castiel's ear. She is the mother figure to everyone, loving and compassionate one moment and in the next an expert hunter. "We're-"

Dean's green eyes flash darkly up at her. The dispassionate mask of the general hard on the tanned face becoming a second skin. "I'm busy," growls out an inhuman voice.

Ellen nods, fear for Dean flooding her face as she turns and rejoins the others. Castiel continues to stare down as Dean locks his own onto him. Despite the cold exterior, Castiel still can read his friend. Dispair is driving Dean insane, the hole of Sam's betrayal sucking him down a dark path. It is without dark irony that Castiel finds it interesting that while his brother ripped out his essence, he has become more human. But when Sam ripped out Dean's, the eldest Winchester is becoming less.

"Later," a flash of the old Dean is there. Concern for his people overriding his drive to find Lucifer whispers in the silent conversations only they understand. Nodding his head in reluctant support, Castiel folds his arms across his chest as Dean enters the torture room, slamming the door closed with his foot.

It isn't till everyone leaves when the fallen angel wanders the camp. He keeps smiling and giving compliments to all, trying to keep their hope alive as his dies with every slice Dean does onto the demon. It isn't till he reaches the outskirts that he allows a tiny tear to slip past his defenses. A newcomer spots his moment of weakness and offers him his salvation in form of a plant. It will make him feel good, says the man, make him feel like he is once more flying through the air with his brothers and sisters. Make him forget for a few minutes about how he is failing Dean.

The man wasn't lying.

* * *

He finally stops moving, standing still as a statue besides a precious relic. No one remembers what it used to look like. Rufus has passed on. Ellen was infected and had to be put down. It was something Castiel did himself, not informing Dean till later. If he could, he spared Dean the burden. The general, for no longer was he the cocky hunter of before, had enough to deal with in moving survivors, running supply runs and sadly executing any traitors or up-risers. Now is not the time to rebel within their little community.

A baby's hungry screams permeate the cold night air. Castiel glances towards it, hoping that it is not Robert. Jo's son is strong, but he misses his mother. Castiel can't muster up the urge to look at the child, only to see Jo's cooling body as she died while giving birth.

Reaching out he grasps onto the dirt covered roof, eyes falling on the broken remains of a familiar small rustic gold amulet buried in the dirt. Hanging his head to fight back the tears, Castiel rides out a wave of grief. As always, he mutters out a pray of thanks to this relic for providing him something to lean on. He no longer can muster the strength to pray to God.

The once gleaming black beauty of the Impala was a gem to behold back in the day. He still remembers her warm purring, the soft feel of leather and the thrumming of some guitar as he rode in one of the seats. Dean would be driving, never trusting Castiel or anyone except maybe Sam on occasion to lay a hand on that sleek steering wheel. Head bopping up and down, the loud mouth Winchester explained the finer things in life such as hot dogs, playboys, Die Hard and above all pie. Sam sighed loudly, telling him to ignore everything Dean was saying for his older brother was mixing reality with porn again.

But that was before.

When despite the world ending, Dean still had Sam and Castiel still had his faith. Lucifer raising him no longer bothers him, but it is the absence of God that disturbs him. How can such a father save Dean and Sam from the convenant only to allow all this suffering and pain to happen? How?

Leaning forward, Castiel rests his forehead on the door frame. Across from him, the driver door is long since gone. Shattered windows twinkle jagged edges. They are remainders of a night long ago during one of Dean's explosions. A night Castiel remembers well since he was the one who had stitched up the cut up hands and arms while Dean drank himself into a stupor. The dents and ripping of the Impala's guts all happened under the Winchester's rage filled acts. No one touches the car except Dean, but Castiel sneaks a few tender caresses trying to ease the pain of the car. It might not be a living breathing creature, but it is a family member to Dean and it too suffers through the Apocalypse.

Ever since Sa—Lucifer almost once again tried to kill Dean, the Winchester lost all motivation to maintain the car. He cut off all ties to the Dean Winchester that was about family and protecting little brothers. Left parked on the side of the road, now covered with weeds and grass, the Impala crumbles underneath nature's relentless attacks.

Nature did its toil on the fallen angel as well, his faith and hope rubble in the five years of fighting. He is a washed up, battered, discarded creature seeking escape in drugs and women instead of prayer. Yet, he miracously maintains the mask of a man brimming with it. Dean never says anything. Instead, the eldest Winchest plays along, escaping once in awhile with a woman after some coaxing. He never allows himself to be drunk in public, though. No. That only happens in the darkest hours of the night and only then does Castiel know.

Stepping back, Castiel mourns the death of this beloved car. The shell of the Impala a manifestation of how gutted and broken Dean is and how he is lost and abandoned. The crunching of boots pique at his ears and despite not being an angel anymore, Castiel knows who it was.

Dean halts to the right. Always moving, the general stands by his side in a rare moment. The dark green jacket's too big, but so was Castiel's own clothes. They have lost weight, faces and body hardening to the harsh conditions. A hint of whiskers etch Dean's face into a chiseled appearance as if carved from stone. Castiel's own beard only made him blend in easier with the humans. Hell, everything that once made him stand out is gone now…except…

Tilting his head slightly to the side in an old fashion, Castiel stares at Dean, blue eyes fill with concern for his charge. "Hello Dean."

The earth might be a hell in a hand basket. Sam is gone, replaced by Lucifer. And God's no longer here. But his support towards Dean never changed since that day when they faced Raphael. He still places himself every day at risk of exposure to the demon disease or plain old getting shot. All for Dean. If only to see him smile carefree once more, laugh with utter abandonment or finally to see him at peace.

"Last night..." An echo of a memory long ago surfaces.

A dead look stares down at him. Castiel flashes an ever-growing natural grin. "Anything you want...booze, women..." Shoulders slump as the old tease flies over the spikey-haired man. Finally, Castiel understands the exasperation Dean must have felt every time one of his jokes flew over him. Frowning, the ex-angel stares unblinking back. His voice loses its' humor. "You should have meet Peter. Persecuted, hunted and still somehow he found the time to throw a party every Sabbath day, much less relax every now and then."

A chocked laugh breaks free from his silent companion. Eyes crinkling in content relief Dean gazes at him, the mask falling free. Sheer suffering spills forth. Eyes drowning in weariness and anguish. Once more, Castiel sees beyond the general, the hunter or the grieving brother. He sees beyond the corrupted soul Dean became when he first raised him from Perdition. All he sees is a friend who wants to be reunited with his family and no longer have to blame himself for causing Man's utter destruction. He sees a brother hell bent on fixing his family's mistakes.

Reaching out, Castiel lays his hand on Dean's shoulder. His rough, dirt encrusted fingers squeezes gently, pressing perfectly onto the burn mark hidden from the world. Dean's eyes fall onto the hand, eyes distant as if remembering how that same hand was once a fiery white fire of an angel.

"Cas…" whispers out a cracked lost voice. "I can't do it...it's..." "_Too much_."

Tightening his hold, Castiel leans forward not caring about personal space. A memory of long ago when Dean told him about the concept flutters through his mind. Dean's eyes shoot upwards, caution and curiosity tugging at his features. The blue-eyed man halts a few inches away, surprised to feel a wave of renewed strength and determination fill him. He wouldn't make the same mistakes as before in a white-washed hospital room.

"We'll save him, Dean." "_Save Sam from Lucifer...save him by kiling him_." His voice rings true, once a lie blossoming into truth. "We'll save them all."

And for the first time in a long while, Castiel is on sure ground. Knows it with absolute conviction just like those days when he knew that God was alive, that this path he walks on is right. Dean smirks, looking like his old self before breaking the gaze. Hope flares to life once more in the hunter. Eyes falling back down on the Impala, the righteous man finds the strength to live and fight another day. And that is enough for the fallen angel.

Understanding the quiet message, Castiel breaks his hold. Slowly, he meanders back to the camp leaving Dean to his solitude. Two guards shuffle by, nodding to him in greeting with their guns propped over their shoulders. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Castiel finds himself staring upward into the night sky taking in the sparkling stars that he knows by heart.

"_Father…they need you. All is lost for the angels and me, but please. They are your creations, your favorites. Please help them_…" Closing his eyes, Castiel stops and stands quietly once more. The first prayer he ever said since his grace was destroyed drifts away. "_Give us a sign that all is not lost_."

Hastening footsteps pull Castiel's attention downwards forcing his own cocky mask into place. Turning to the side, he watches as Dean jogs up to him face all grim and business like. Something large draps onto his back and right away Castiel knows it's a person. "Dean, what is it?"

"I need your help," rasps out Dean, eyes flying around them making sure no one was listening.

"Ok, but may-"

"Get the basement room ready and make sure no one sees us," orders the general, all pretenses gone.

Castiel narrows his eyes, falling into hunter mode. "Right." Sparing a glance at the unconscious body, he swears he spots a familiar silver ring and the spiky hair of the man before him…only younger.

Dean shuffles impatiently. "Cas."

The dark-haired man nods and begins to sneakily make his way to the basement of headquarters. Dean is not far behind. Was it a shape shifter? A new trick from Lucifer to gain insight on the camp? Yet a voice chastises him, telling him this new person is no shape shifter or spy. That he knows exactly who it was and how he came to be here. Sending a quick glance upwards, he allows himself to feel a hint of faith. Maybe there was a God after all.

Maybe there was hope for mankind.

Maybe.


End file.
